


A Coat of Arms

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: F/F, also once again vice manages to write something absolutely not what you probably envisaged, he is only on the phone tho, i got tired, i love writing london tho, i'm really tired, it's fun for me because we brits hardly ever get to write london, we just struggle with trying to pretend we know new york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 16:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16519772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: Charlotte Wells works at a strip club. Isabella is a lawyer who has never ever thought about going into a strip club ever.





	A Coat of Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Anon Prompt: I don't know if you're still accepting Fitzwells prompts, but in case you are, I have a modern!au one. So basically Isabella is very lonely businesswoman and one of her friends surprises her arranging her a night with a high class escort Charlotte Wells. I don't know how would that work since Isabella doesn't have any friends in canon, but I'm sending this in case you feel like writing something like this.
> 
> Once again I'm pretty sure I've managed to give you absolutely not what you asked for. Canon has never stopped me, anon, and it never will. But it is surprisingly hard to set these characters down in the modern times so I'm sorry if they seem a little out of character? I tried. 
> 
> Could potentially continue this? If I have time. I'm not sure. There are a lot of themes here worth going into and stuff, but I'm quite busy at the moment so I did cheat a little by cutting a lot of things - but if it's popular I could be persuaded to carve out time for this one. How do we feel about Modern Au? I'll let you guys decide. Enjoy!

Usually, Isabella Fitzwilliam was very good at delicately extricating herself from the debatably sensible antics of her friends. It wasn’t that she was antisocial; it was just that she didn’t particularly enjoy sitting at the back of bars, watching other people make-out. It just wasn’t her idea of fun. But occasionally – just occasionally – Nancy Birch would weasel and trick and quite frankly lie to her, all to get her sat, here, right now, in a strip club backroom currently being given a private strip tease.

Objectively, the strip tease was very good. Not that she had anything to compare it to, but she imagined it must be a fairly good strip tease, seeing as she wasn’t entirely not enjoying herself – but she wasn’t _enjoying_ herself, let it be known. She would not be forgiving Nancy Birch any time soon. And in fact, if Nancy Birch asked, she would say that she hated it, and she wouldn’t technically be lying, because she wasn’t one-hundred percent enjoying it, so at least a small, rational part of her – she argued – must be hating it.

It had been a sweet gesture really. They were just trying to get her out of the office, and she appreciated the gesture, in a sort of oblique way that maybe, three weeks down the line, she could forgive them for essentially tricking her into coming to a strip club. At the moment, however, it was still pretty fresh in her mind, being currently straddled by an almost-naked woman and panicking about where to put her hands. She couldn’t touch – could she? Was that against the rules? She had never been to a strip-club before, but she was sure everyone always said you couldn’t touch.

Isabella scoffed. She should ask her brother, she thought bitterly. He’d know.

She watched as the stripper – was that the correct term? She didn’t know. Oh god, was she being rude? – slowed above her at the sound, and remembered that she could actually be heard by the real person exposing her bare back. The stripper spun around, placing her hands on the back of the sofa either side of Isabella’s shoulders. They were uncomfortably close.

“What’s funny?”

 Isabella blinked. The stripper looked at her. Not aggressively, just kind of… waiting for a reply.

“It –“ Isabella didn’t stutter. She was a lawyer. She was rarely lost for words. She coughed. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“What were you laughing at?”

“It wasn’t really a laugh.” The stripper moved back a bit, surprised. Good, thought Isabella.

“Alright, gettin’ specific.”

The two stared at one another for what felt like a long time.

“You’re using –

“Do you want to –“

The two stared some more. Isabella coughed. “You go,” she said, looking away. Her hands were still awkwardly placed at her side, and she found herself trying to clutch at the sticky vinyl sofa she was sat on, fidgeting.

“You’re using up your time,” began the stripper.

“You stopped stripping.”

“Wasn’t stripping.”

Isabella looked away. “I suppose.”

The stripper sighed. “Do you want me to continue?”

“Do you want to?”

The stripper widened her eyes, tilting her head slightly. “What?”

“Do you want to continue stripping? I’ll still pay you if you don’t.”

“You already paid so yeah, that’s not a problem.”

“It wasn’t me.”

The stripper sighed, and began to extricate herself. She stopped straddling Isabella’s lap and stood to the side. Isabella watched her; she watched how there was absolutely no shyness in any of her actions. Her body was bare, and she must’ve been a little cold, but she stood proud in front of Isabella. Isabella, fully clothed in a $4000 pantsuit, felt very naked.

“I figured you didn’t pay, or willingly come. You look about as comfortable as a deer in headlights.”

Isabella looked down at her lap. She realized she could move her hands again, and brought them to rest in her lap. Her back straightened up. “Sorry,” she said.

Now the stripper was getting impatient. “Stop apologizing, seriously.”

Isabella opened her mouth. Closed it. Began again. “How much time do I have left?”

The stripper closed her eyes and took a deep breathe. “A fair amount.”

Isabella kept her eyes down. “Okay. You can sit down."

The stripper raised an eyebrow. Can I, she thought. Well thank you, your highness. But she did as she was told. Nor did it escape her that there was very little timidity in that tone. What kind of woman, she thought, dressed in what looked like a very expensive pantsuit, gets dragged to a strip-club?

The stripper sighed. “So.”

“What’s your name?”

“Charlotte.” It slipped out before she could stop it. Lucy was going to kill her, if Ma didn’t get to her first. It was fine, it’s not like she had her surname, but still. Then again, she doubted the woman sat next to her was some kind of stalker.

The neon glow of the room pulsated: blue, purple, red – over and over. There was a flat screen in the corner, and the carpet was shag pile. Isabella twisted the soles her shoes into it, watching the fibers crush under her weight.

Charlotte crossed her legs. “So what brings you here?”

Isabella turned to look at her. “My friends.”

“I got that much, but why?”

“They thought I needed to get out of the office.”

“And do you?”

Isabella kept looking at her and it was making Charlotte squirm. She couldn’t work it out: one moment shy, the next facing her with a stare that made her feel like she was holding the secret to the universe.

“Probably.”

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Interesting place to pick first.”

“I didn’t pick it.”

“How did they get you out?”

Isabella sighed. “Deceit and trickery.”

Charlotte laughed, loudly. So loudly, in fact, that she surprised herself, because she didn’t often laugh and yet this straight-laced lawyer had surprised her. She caught herself quickly, and stopped laughing.

“Okay then.”

Isabella looked at her in wonder, eyes fixated at the sound. “Sorry,” she said, for lack of anything else to say.

“’Bout what? That’s hilarious. How does someone like you get tricked into something like this?”

“Someone like me?”

Charlotte indicated to her dress. “Well, you’re clearly successful, so you’re not completely incompetent – unless its inherited money, but you seem to smart for that kind of thing.”

Isabella looked away, but she didn’t reply.

“So. Which is it?” pressed Charlotte.

“Both, I suppose. My brother –“ Isabella cut herself off. “I’m sorry. I’m talking too much.”

Charlotte frowned. “I mean I’ll admit this wasn’t what I was expecting from tonight, but you’re not talkin’ too much. I asked you the fucking question so.”

Isabella startled at the coarse language. Charlotte apologized. “Sorry. London bred and born, you know?”

“You don’t have an accent.”

“Nah, I do. I’m hidin’ it though.”

“You were born here?”

“Yeah, or roundabouts. Always been round Soho. Ma said we should speak properly though, because some of the clients prefer it - we let you decide.”

Isabella frowned. “Well that’s stupid.”

Charlotte smirked. “I’ll tell Ma you said so.”

“Well I don’t care, but –“

“But, you’re not a pompous old man. Thankfully.”

Isabella looked away, but she smiled, and Charlotte was glad she had made her smile.

“What about you? Where you from?”

“Chelsea.”

Charlotte whistled. “Posh.”

“Yeah.”

“You still live there?”

Isabella shook her head. “Not since my brother –“ she cut herself off again. “Not for a while.”

Charlotte nodded. “So you earn your own money?”

Isabella nodded. “You seem awfully interested in my money.”

“No it’s just. We don’t get many like you. As in, wealthy girls. It’s not exactly the standard client. At least, not for us. A friend of mine though, she went to work across the road, you know?”

“I can’t say that I know it,” replied Isabella, smiling softly.

Charlotte would’ve blushed, were she a lesser mortal. “Right. Well across the road is Quigley’s, the garish place with the queue round the corner? I got a friend who works there, and they get a lot of your specific kind.”

“My specific kind?”

“Wealthy. Not straight. Suited and booted ladies.”

Isabella tried not to take offence at the assumptions, or the blatant categorization of her character. “Right,” she said, looking away.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” amended Charlotte. “It’s just, we have to notice who you are so we know what best to do.”

“And what did you get from me?”

“That you clearly didn’t want to be here. But you paid, so.”

There was a bang at the door, loud and clear. Charlotte smiled. “That’s Pa. Time’s up, lady.”

The two stood up, Isabella looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry,” she said.

“Why?”

“I wasn’t very good company.”

“It’s my job to be the good company."

“Then you did a very good job.” There it is again, thought Charlotte. So sure of herself, beneath it all; and how deep did it go, wondered Charlotte.

“Thanks.”

Isabella nodded goodbye and left, as quickly as she dared. She didn’t want to be in that room anymore. It was weird – the whole evening had been weird. She had sat on a vinyl sofa talking about her life to a complete stranger, who she didn’t understand in the least. Ma and Pa? Whose parents lead them into this life? Nothing made sense, not least of all the fact that she actually liked Charlotte. It was a nice name, too. Charlotte.

She walked out of the club with her head down, deep in her thoughts and completely oblivious to the shadowy figures in the corner of her eye; the yelling and the noise and the music that she hated even more now that she was leaving. She climbed up the narrow, metal stairs one by one, watching the pointed tips of her boots scrape at the stair. The cold air hit her like relief. She pushed her way through the crowds – made sure to look up over the road at Quigley’s, affirming what Charlotte had told her, though she couldn’t tell you why it was so important to listen to the stripper she had just effectively had a therapy session with – before peeling off to the side.

Leaning against a lamppost, she pulled out her phone, shooting a message to Nancy saying that she was outside, waiting to leave. 

* * *

 

Quite reasonably, thought Isabella, she had not expected to see Charlotte the Stripper again. She had no intention of returning to a strip-club in the middle of Soho with more neon lights than a neon light convention. She had scolded Nancy, and Nancy had been about as apologetic as Isabella could have expected – which is to say, not at all. It turned out that Nancy had been long time friends with the owner (Isabella wondered if this was Charlotte’s “Ma”) and it had been a favour. Nancy had, apparently, in her words, been trying to widen Isabella’s social circle.

Isabella thought giving her a striptease was a strange way to go about it, and promptly declared that in actual fact Nancy had been trying to get her laid. Nancy had not explicitly denied it.

(Isabella had, briefly considered, asking Nancy whether she knew Charlotte – assuming that Charlotte Wells was the daughter of the owner of the Wells strip club, “Ma” being the “Ms. Wells” Nancy was friends with. Then she thought that might be a weird, and also, that maybe Nancy had requested Charlotte for her on purpose, which would have been even more weird. So she refrained, because if there was anything she had learnt in this life, it was that you should absolutely not ask questions to things you do not want to know the answer to.)

And so, quite reasonably, she had not really expected to ever see Charlotte again. She had gone this long, even knowing Nancy, never having heard of the Wells family. She expected it to stay that way. So when Nancy came into her office with a case, she was expecting nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the only thing that clued her in to this not being of the ordinary variety was the fact that Nancy had stormed into her office, and not simply taken the case herself. Nancy was a very capable lawyer, and Isabella was prone to simply let her do what she wanted. It had not yet proved a false move. Nancy striding into her office with a case in hand meant something different.

“Nancy?” Isabella was in the middle of preparing the defense for a lucrative civil suit, and Nancy knew that, so whatever it was, it had to be important.

“Isabella.” Nancy never called her Isabella. “I need you take a case.”

Isabella put down her pen. “Nancy, I have the Nerberdine case.”

“Please,” said Nancy, standing over her desk. “You have to take it.” She held out the file. Isabella looked at it, before taking it. She flicked through the pages, but didn’t get past the first.

“Charlotte?”

“Wells. From –“

“The strip club. I remember.”

“They need my help and I can’t help them. I’m not the lawyer they need, but I told them I would ask the best lawyer I knew.”

“Nancy, this is criminal. I haven’t fought criminal in years. I don’t think I even still have my robes.”

“But you can help them. I never trained as a barrister, I can’t even defend them in court, but I can help you with the case – or even take Neberdine.”

“You know the company would never let that happen.” Isabella flicked through the rest of the file. “When’s the trial?”

“Next week.”

“That’s the same –“

“I know. Please Fitz. Please. You know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important to me.”

“And you almost never say please,” joked Isabella.

Nancy gave her a small smile. “I’ve known the Wells family for years. I grew up with them, and they put me through law school. I’ve looked after Lucy and Charlotte since they were kids. They’re good kids, Fitz. They’d never do anything wrong.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow. “Anything?”

This time, Nancy smiled. “Okay, so mostly nothing.”

Isabella put down the file. “Okay. I’ll take the case. Where are they keeping Charlotte?”

“St. Giles way.”

“Alright.” Nancy didn’t leave her office. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Take the day off. Get Harriet to take any outstanding work you have, or work from home. Go to the family, and tell them I’ll go to see Charlotte this evening after work.”

Nancy nodded. “Thanks Fitz. I mean it.”

“I know you do. For someone who was trying to get me out of the office…”

“Shut up,” replied Nancy, turning to leave. “You didn’t even like it.”

“I didn’t say that,” muttered Isabella, hoping Nancy wouldn’t hear.

Nancy heard, and smiled to herself.

* * *

 

 “I’m here to see a Ms. Wells.”

The sergeant at the desk got her to sign in, before leading her through to one of the interrogation rooms.

“You her council?”

“Yes.”

“You look a bit fancy for the criminal lot. No offence. It’s just, they usually bluster in about an hour before the case.”

“There’s no funding these days.”

“Yeah. Not that it matters. Most of ‘em are guilty anyway.”

“Everyone deserves defense, Sergeant. I’m sure you’d appreciate it if you were ever on the wrong side of the law.”

The Sergeant had the decency to look sheepish. “I’ll get Ms. Wells.”

She watched as he left the room, before sitting herself down and pulling out her documents. The Sergeant had put her in a bad mood. It sounded like the kind of thing her brother would say; that same kind of outlook that put men behind bars who didn’t deserve it and women in hospital beds. She clicked her pen several times. She was only doing this for Nancy.

The door opened, and Charlotte was led in. She was, thankfully, out of cuffs, but her clothing was ripped, her t-shirt filthy. Her shoes were missing, and her jeans stained. She looked cold.

Isabella stood at once. “Thank you Sergeant. I’d like you to leave.” He frowned, but nodded, locking the door behind him. Once he was gone, she focused on Charlotte. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

Charlotte shrugged. “Been better.”

“Sit down. You look cold.”

“Freezing.” Charlotte sat. Isabella reached behind her and pulled at her long, grey coat. She passed it over the table to Charlotte, watching as it pushed her papers onto the floor, dangling in the way.

“Here.”

Charlotte looked at it, almost in wonder, before taking it. She quickly buried herself within. “This is nice.”

“It should be.”

“How much did it cost?”

“It doesn’t matter it’s yours now.”

“I’m not keeping it.” Isabella ignored her, choosing instead to pick up her fallen papers. “I’m serious.”

“I’m sure that you are,” replied Isabella. “But for now, you’re cold, and I have a coat, that I’ve chosen to give to you.”

Charlotte yawned. “Okay.” She was too tired to argue any further.

Isabella softened. “I’m sorry it’s so late, it was the earliest I could get off work.”

“Are you taking my case? Ma mentioned something about Nance –“

“Nancy Birch pulled some strings in your case, yes. I’m taking your case.” Isabella smiled. “Not that I needed much persuading. You were very pleasant when I last saw you.”

Charlotte looked away. “You remember?”

“I’m surprised _you_ remember,” replied Isabella. “I can’t imagine I was your most memorable night.”

“You’d be surprised.” This time, Isabella blushed. Charlotte hadn’t blushed in years, nothing really ever quite shocked her anymore, or made her embarrassed, but seeing Isabella’s cheeks flushed with pink, her white silk shirt slightly ruffled at the collar and her hair a little messier than it might be at the beginning of the day, Charlotte couldn’t help but admire the look.

Isabella coughed. “I haven’t had a lot of time to read you file – I was only handed it this morning, but your trial is next week at the Old Bailey, yes?”

“I dunno. They just booked me. I was too busy protecting Lucy to –“

“Your sister was there with you?” Isabella started to take notes.

Charlotte nodded. “Yeah, of course. But you can’t tell them that. You can’t. You have to promise.”

Isabella looked up at her. “You don’t want Lucy involved?”

“Her name. If she gets a record…she wasn’t even involved at all. She was just there, but they can’t know that. I don’t want her anywhere near this. She’s going to uni next month. I’m not gonna let her life be fucked up by a stupid bar brawl gone wrong.”

Charlotte met Isabella’s stare, and she begun to understand what made Isabella such a good lawyer, and where that stare came from. It was like, for the first time, someone was actually trying to understand what she was thinking, and it was terrifying.

“Okay. Lucy will stay out of it.” Isabella closed her papers. “The best I can do is go in for a plea deal, prove your good conduct, and get you a light sentence. With your good conduct, I should be able to get you simply a parole sentence for the next year or so. Unfortunately,” Isabella shifted in her seat, “your profession works against you. Judges will almost never look favourably on you.”

“I know.”

“Is that a problem?”

“There’s nothing I can do, is there? It’s not like I can change the systematic oppression of the underprivileged by a powerful legal system geared to protect the wealthy.” Isabella looked somewhat shocked. Charlotte clarified. “What? I read. I’m not an idiot. I watch my friends get pounded away almost weekly. Number of times Pa’s been put down. We went to Notting Hill once and came back with half of us in jail for the night after the Carnival, all because we were drunk.”

Isabella frowned. “What can I do?”

“What?”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. I don’t want your pity or –“

“It’s not pity, Charlotte. Stop being so angry. I want to help you. If someone wants to help you, let them. So. How can I help?”

“How far are you willing to go?” she muttered, only half in jest.

“Not that far. I’m here to get you the most lenient sentence, not to get myself disbarred. But if I could,” Isabella paused. “If I could, I would.”

* * *

Isabella stared at her phone, holding it in the palm of her hand. It was raining outside. She was sat in McDonalds, ignoring the burger she purchased only to look slightly less conspicuous in the restaurant.

She thumbed through her contacts, over and over, flicking backwards and forwards. F, F, F. She knew where the number was. She knew what it was, too. She knew it by heart, though she wished she didn’t. Even after all these years. She would never forgive him, and she never wanted to talk to him again. She hadn’t seen him since they were young. Since she left his firm. Since she established herself – not as Blayne’s sister, but as Isabella. And she had succeeded. But even now, she needed his help. No, she corrected herself: she didn’t need his help. This case would be easy to defend, easy to get a simply sentence, but she needed to do this for her. She could free Charlotte Wells with a phone call and yes, this was about that, but it was about something else, too.

She pressed the button, put the phone to her ear, and waited.

“Sister.” Isabella swallowed, but didn’t say anything. “Sister I know it’s you.” She could hear the smile in his voice, satisfied and shark-like. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Still she didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure that she could. He could speak for her. “You must want something. Are you in trouble, dear sister? You know I’ll always help you. For a price, of course.”

“Brother.” Finally. She’d said something. She was proud of herself for that at least.

“There you are.”

“Yes.” There was silence. He would wait as long as necessary. She knew that. And she would always cave. She almost always had. “I need your help.”

“Of course you do. What do you need?”

“I need you to help someone.”

“Mmmm. And what do I get from this? You know I’m desperate to see you sister.”

"No."

“No? I don’t know I can help you, unless you start being more reasonable.”

“I will not.”

“Do you want my help.”

“Yes. And in exchange –

“You will have lunch with me.”

Silence. “Yes.” Her voice was quiet.

“Excellent. I’ll make the reservation, and have my assistant send you the details. Rules at 2, I think. Next Wednesday. Will you be free?”

“Yes.”

“And in exchange, I will help you. Who is it that I am helping?”

“Charlotte Wells.”

* * *

 

On Wednesday morning, Isabella Fitzwilliam met Charlotte Wells outside the police station. Charlotte was wearing her coat.

“How are you?”

“Been better.”

“I’ll take you home.”

They began to walk. The ground was damp. Isabella noticed Charlotte was wearing prison-issue shoes, paper-thin. “I’ll get you some shoes,” she said, almost to herself.

She took a circuitous route to Covent Garden, not wanting to run into her brother too early, and peeled in to Kurt Geiger. Charlotte followed wordlessly, watching as Isabella picked out a generic pair of boots and paid without much looking at the cost.

“Thanks,” muttered Charlotte, tying the laces as they sat on the stone steps.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“What for?”

Charlotte shrugged, so once again Isabella led the way, towards Soho. Charlotte coughed. “How d’you get me out?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“I didn’t even go to trial.”

Isabella ignored her. They went for dim sum, Isabella watching as Charlotte ate. Her brother wouldn’t like it if she didn’t eat with him: she didn’t want to be full. Then, she took Charlotte home. Nancy was waiting outside, along with her family. Charlotte ran to them.

Isabella stayed back. Nancy, finished hugging and fretting over Charlotte, looked over at the lawyer, silently asking if she was okay. Of course Nancy knew what she had done. She had been there the first and only time she had defied her brother, and she would stand by her. Isabella nodded, and walked off.

Charlotte noticed her leave, but said nothing. She pulled her coat tighter.

* * *

 

They were sat around the bar, Pa pouring them all drinks to celebrate Charlotte’s safe return. Lucy wouldn’t let go of her, but for the first time, Charlotte didn’t mind as much.

“How was it?” asked Ma.

“As expected.” Truthfully, Charlotte didn’t know what to say. It was easy. She’d been detained for a few days, that was it. Then, someone came in and told her she was going home on Wednesday, instead of to the courthouse. That was that. She hadn’t seen Isabella since that first night in the interrogation room – up until she picked her up outside the station.

Charlotte knew the only person able to answer her questions was Nancy, but she also knew she would have to get Nancy alone before she started answering. So she waited, biding her time, letting her family celebrate just for an evening. Just for an evening, they closed down had a small party of staff, family and friends, and celebrated. Celebrated Charlotte coming home. And while the music was blaring and Ma was busy slow-dancing Pa to a completely inappropriate rendition of Katy Perry on the karaoke machine by her sister, Charlotte sat down by Nancy in the corner of a booth.

“Are you going to tell me how I’m out of prison?”

“Isabella is a very good lawyer.”

“Cut the bullshit Nance. No one just walks out like that, especially not me.”

Nancy looked at Charlotte, before putting her drink down on the table. “Calm down, Wells Jr. I’ll tell you. But I’m pissed as fuck at her for doing this. And a little at you, too.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“She likes you.”

“What?”

“She likes you enough to get you out of a jail sentence the way she did.”

“Well I don’t know ‘bout you but it seems a little unfair to be accusing me of things when I don’t even know what I’m being accused of.”

“How much do you?”

“Only what she told me when I was meant to be giving her a strip-tease, which went about a s well as I’m sure you knew it would.”

“Oh no, she liked it.”

“What?”

Nancy smirked. “She liked it.”

Charlotte tried not to look so surprised. “Fuck off,” she said, instead.

“Her family is incredibly wealthy. Old money, and now they’re a bunch of lawyer, but her brother gets almost all of the inheritance. Not that she needs it at this point, but there was a time when she did. Her brother is the Marquess of Blayne –“

“She’s a Marquise?”

“Technically yes. He’s a nasty piece of work anyway. Abused her a lot, in way it isn’t really my place to talk about. Eventually she broke away, and hadn’t spoken to him in almost fifteen years. Established herself and her firm as one of the best in the country. Her brother, meanwhile, decided to continue as a barrister, and I’m sure through a little family nepotism, is now a Supreme Court judge. Safe to say, he got you out.”

“She talked to her brother?”

“Yes. She’s been at lunch with him today, and now…”

“Where is she?”

“At home, probably. Or the office.”

“Is she okay?”

“Calm down. She’s stronger than she looks.”

Charlotte stopped. “I know that,” she replied, softly. “Fuck. Why did she do that?”

“She likes you,” replied Nancy, as if it was obvious. “Her brother is one of the most powerful people in the country, but he is still her brother. There’s not a lot he wouldn’t do – for a price.”

“And what was the price?” Charlotte was angry, but she didn’t know where to direct it. Herself? For driving Isabella to this? Blayne? Most definitely. Isabella for even considering this option? Absolutely.

“Lunch.”

* * *

 

Isabella ignored the knock at the door. She was tired. She was so so tired. She just wanted to sleep – forever, if possible. But she had this case to finish, at trial tomorrow, and laundry to do, and she had to feed her cat, and now there as a knock at the door and all she wanted to do was yell at it to go the fuck away.

But Isabella was raised a Lady, and so she uncurled herself from the sofa, straightened her hoodie, and padded over in her fluffy socks to unlock the door.

“Hi.”

Isabella blinked.

“You…can I come in?”

Isabella stepped aside to let Charlotte in. She closed the door behind them.

“Are you okay?” she asked, wondering why Charlotte would be coming to see her now, of all times.

“I’m mad at you.”

“Me?”

“Do you see anyone else here in this room at eleven minutes to midnight. I don’t just turn up at peoples door like this everyday you know.”

Isabella frowned. “I have work to do.”

“Right. I know that. I just wanted. I just wanted to say thank you. I didn’t. Earlier.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t a problem.”

Charlotte spun round. “Nancy told me everything.” Isabella didn’t speak. “And I really am sorry. I mean, I’m furious, and I want to help you but –“

“You can’t.” Isabella’s voice was soft. “There’s no point being angry. It’s over now anyway.”

“But he can’t just –“

“With respect, you barely know what’s going on here.” Isabella cut her off, maybe a little too harshly. “Sorry. I’m tired. Can you…can you go? I’m sorry. This is rude of me. It’s just.”

“Of course. Of course I can.” Charlotte didn’t move. “Will you go for lunch with me?”

“What?”

“Lunch. Will you go for lunch with me? You’re busy tomorrow, but what bout the weekend? We close during the days so I’m free Saturday lunchtime.”

Isabella blinked. Charlotte started to talk just to fill the silence. “Or you could see me at work, although last time –“

“No! No. Absolutely not.”

“Did you not like my striptease.”

“No I did. I –“

“Then I can always give you another.”

Isabella was beet red, and Charlotte was barely holding back her laughter. Isabella noticed that she was being teased and smiled. “Stop it, Charlotte.”

“Okay then. Lunch on Saturday. So I can say thank you. It won’t be fancy though.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause. “You can leave at any point,” teased Isabella.

“Yes. Yep. Okay. Bye. Thank you. Sorry. Bye.”

“Do you need me to call you a taxi?”

“Oh no, I have an Uber waiting outside.”

“Hold on.” Isabella went into her purse, and pulled out a twenty, trying to stop the blush on her cheeks. “Here, for the fare.”

Charlotte took it. “Thanks.”

“See you Saturday.”

Charlotte smiled. “Saturday. Cool.”


End file.
